


If You Show Me Yours

by airspaniel, dance_across



Series: Commemorative Photos [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Coitus Interruptus, Coitus Not-So-Interruptus, Exhibitionism, Friends With Benefits, Hand Jobs, Kneeling, Light Dom/sub, Lingerie, M/M, No But Seriously Every Single Character Is A Switch, POV Phichit, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Rimming, Sex Tapes, Spanking, Switching, Teasing, The Katsuki-Nikiforov Wedding, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-12-10 07:33:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11686974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airspaniel/pseuds/airspaniel, https://archiveofourown.org/users/dance_across/pseuds/dance_across
Summary: Phichit nods towards the flash drive in Chris’s hand. “Wouldn’t Victor be upset if he found out you showed me his nudes?”Chris’s laugh is sudden and loud, unabashedly amused. “Upset? Fuck, the only thing Victor will be upset about is that I didn’t have these published as an art book for him to display on his coffee table.” He leans in again, speaking conspiratorially into Phichit’s ear. “I don’t think he would mind me giving you a private show.”





	If You Show Me Yours

**Author's Note:**

> First off, a huge thank-you to everyone who read and enjoyed [Show Him What He's Missing](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9868835), the first fic in this series! A lot of you asked if there would be a sequel in which we get to see Victor's reaction to Phichit's dirty pictures of Yuuri. The answer is still yes... however, this is not that fic. That fic will be part three of this series. This, friends, is part two.

“Well, well, what was _that_ all about?”

Phichit startles, nearly stumbling at the sudden sultry voice in his ear. He’s halfway back to the reception now, mission accomplished, flash drive safely delivered to the hands it was always meant for—and, out of nowhere, Christophe Giacometti has fallen into step with him.

“What was all what about?” Phichit asks, giving Chris a sunny smile.

“You and Victor, with your little tryst back there,” Chris replies, nodding over his shoulder. “Trying to steal Yuuri’s groom away already, are we?”

“Please.” Phichit rolls his eyes, even as he runs frantically through the conversation he just had with Victor. He didn’t say anything incriminating, did he? “Just because half the universe wants to get into Nikiforov’s pants, that doesn’t mean I do too.”

“That’s _Katsuki-Nikiforov,_ as of about an hour ago,” Chris corrects, with a smirk and a wag of his finger. “And it’s at least two-thirds of the universe. Probably more. Seven-eighths, minimum.”

“I guess that makes me special,” Phichit says, and turns to look at the dance floor as the DJ switches seamlessly to a new song. “Oooh, it’s Miley! Come dance with me!”

But when Phichit holds out his hand, Chris doesn’t take it. He just raises an eyebrow. “No more dancing just yet. I need to track Yuuri down. I’ve got something to give him, and I was going to wait till later, but you! Phichit! You’ve _inspired_ me.”

“Is it your dick, Giacometti?” Phichit says. “Because if it is, it definitely isn’t me who inspired you—”

“Just because half the universe wants to get into Katsuki’s pants,” Chris says, throwing Phichit’s words right back at him.

“Touché,” Phichit says with a grin.

“Nah,” says Chris—and that’s when he pulls it out. A bright silver flash drive. Almost identical to the one Phichit just gave Victor. “I just wanted to give Yuuri a belated bachelor party present.”

Phichit’s mouth is suddenly dry. “What kind of present?”

“Pictures. Or, more specifically…” Chris makes a show of clearing his throat; when he speaks again, his voice is high and breathy, like he’s making fun of someone: “The best pictures ever taken! Of anything, by anyone, _ever!”_

That’s exactly what Phichit just said to Victor, not three minutes ago. Chris overheard it all. And unlike Victor, who’s so starry-eyed about being newly married that he probably wouldn’t recognize an innuendo if it did a tap dance on his supernaturally large forehead, Chris is… well, he’s _Chris._

“Uhhh,” Phichit says, screaming internally. “I don’t know what you’re—I mean—what kind of—”

“Aww,” Chris says. “Are you going to pretend you _didn’t_ just give Victor a flash drive full of naked pictures of his brand-new husband?” 

Phichit covers his eyes with his hands. He’s been caught. Years and years of keeping Yuuri’s secret, only to be caught _now_. He is the worst friend. Ugh.

“So, what was it?” Chris asks, leaning close. “Did you two date? Were you college sweethearts?”

It’s a fair question—which leads Phichit to another question, equally fair. He points to the second flash drive, which Chris is holding up like a talisman, and he asks: “What about you and Victor?”

“I believe the English is ‘fuckbuddies,’” Chris says easily. “Although Victor tended to prefer ‘friends with benefits.’”

Huh. Phichit didn’t know that, but it’s not actually a surprise, now that he thinks about it. 

“Interesting,” he says.

“Well?” says Chris. “You and Yuuri?”

Phichit frowns, pretending to think it over. “I don’t know. Hmm.” And he shouldn’t say this. He really, really shouldn’t. But he just can’t help himself. “Is there a word for ‘roommates who never dated but occasionally stuck silicone dicks up each other’s asses when they got bored’?”

Chris looks absolutely _delighted_. “Phichit Chulanont. My new best friend in the whole wide world. I’d like to propose a deal.” He wiggles the flash drive. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours. What do you say?”

Phichit shakes his head. “No can do, I’m afraid. Number one: I made a solemn promise to never show those pictures to anyone else on the planet except for Victor, and even then, only in this precise situation. And number two: I just gave Victor the only copies that exist.”

“Really,” Chris says, not even pretending that it’s a question. “No backups? Nothing in the cloud?”

“And risk a hack?” Phichit says, affronted. “I would never.”

“Okay, okay,” Chris says, smiling disarmingly. “But if you’re trying to tell me that the Prince of Insta didn’t keep copies of those pretty pictures _somewhere,_ then I don’t believe you.”

Despite himself, Phichit is charmed. He is very proud of his follower count. But still, he made a promise to Yuuri, and so he says, “Flattery will get you nowhere, Giacometti.”

Chris reaches out and runs his fingers down Phichit’s lapel, smooth over the satin. “Oh, you’d be surprised at where flattery can get me.”

Is it getting warmer in here? Phichit feels like it’s probably gotten warmer. Because the alternative is that the seductive promise in Chris’s voice is making him flush and, come on, Phichit’s not _that_ easy.

“Oh, would I?” Phichit tries to sound teasing and casual at the same time. He’s not sure it works.

From the look on Chris’s face, it definitely doesn’t. “Very, _very_ surprised,” he purrs. 

And, okay, Phichit’s gotta get the high ground again.

“What about you?” He nods towards the flash drive in Chris’s hand. “Wouldn’t Victor be upset if he found out you showed me his nudes?”

Chris’s laugh is sudden and loud, unabashedly amused. “Upset? Fuck, the only thing Victor will be upset about is that I didn’t have these published as an art book for him to display on his coffee table.” He leans in again, speaking conspiratorially into Phichit’s ear. “I don’t think he would mind me giving you a private show.”

There’s that heat again. Phichit should really talk to the venue about the air conditioning. 

“Why didn’t you?” he asks.

“Why didn’t I what?” Chris replies, turning his face so that Phichit can feel his breath against his skin, which is _not at all_ distracting.

“The coffee table book thing,” Phichit clarifies.

“Oh, I don’t know if they own a coffee table.” Chris holds the drive up again, eyes glittering. “Also, a lot of this is video.”

Phichit sucks in a breath. He might have pictures of Yuuri from just about every possible angle, but he never thought to take _video_. What kind of Insta prince is he?

It’s tempting. It’s so, so tempting. He’s not even attracted to Victor, personally—he wasn’t lying about that part—but he can’t deny that Victor is objectively hot. And besides, he really ought to know what Yuuri is getting up to these days, right? That’s what best friends do. They make a point of knowing everything worth knowing. And Phichit is an expert in knowing everything worth knowing.

He knows, for example, how Yuuri sounds when he comes, both with and without a hand on his dick. With and without a dildo up his ass. With and without a blindfold over his eyes. It’s only fair that he ought to know as many things as possible about Victor, too. Just in case.

Just in case of what, he doesn’t know.

But he doesn’t care.

Because _video._

Phichit licks his lips. Makes up his mind. He tells Chris, “My laptop’s inside.”

Chris’s grin widens, his eyes slitting in a way that’s almost catlike as he presses a hand to Phichit’s back, then almost immediately lets it drift lower. And lower.

And it isn’t as though Phichit’s never had Chris’s hand on his ass before. He’s willing to bet real money that every single male skater in the world has, at least once, been groped by Chris. It’s practically his way of saying hello.

But this feels different than usual. More personal. Maybe because there’s nobody watching them, which means Chris isn’t performing for anyone except Phichit. Maybe because the two words that accompany the touch are spoken in a voice so low that only Phichit could possibly hear:

“Let’s go.”

Yeah. Chris sounds _hungry._ And as Phichit lets Chris lead him back inside, toward the rooms where the wedding party got ready for the ceremony just a few hours ago, he decides that that’s just fine. Because, faulty air conditioning or not, Phichit might just be a little hungry, too.

Everyone’s stuff is in piles around the room: draped over couches and chairs, stuffed in corners, hanging over opened closet doors. If not for the smell—cologne instead of sweat—it wouldn’t be unlike a locker room. Phichit finds the corner where he left his bags, digs out both his laptop and the cable that goes with it, and clears a space on the tiny coffee table to set it down. He settles on the plush carpet in front of it, and waits for it to boot up.

“Should we lock the door?” he asks.

Chris, turning the drive over and over in his fingers, considers this. Then tilts his head a little, bright green eyes flashing as his smirk returns full force. “We can if you want. But I never do.”

Phichit rolls his eyes, smiling fondly. “Exhibitionist.”

“Oh, you think _I’m_ an exhibitionist?” Chris comes over to hand Phichit the flash drive, then sits beside him on the carpet. “Just you watch.”

The laptop scans the drive, then proclaims it safe and displays a folder full of files. Photos and videos, all labeled in French. Phichit does not speak French.

“Where do we start?” he asks Chris.

Chris scrolls. Selects. _“Celle-ci,”_ he says, and clicks.

Victor Nikiforov’s face fills the laptop screen. Silvery-blond hair falls over his shoulders, covering a good amount of his chest—but not enough to hide the fact that he’s not wearing a shirt. He’s young here. Much, much younger than he is now.

“Oh my god, was he even legal?” Phichit says, taking in the hair, the thin face, the ridiculously blue eyes.

“In most countries,” Chris says with a laugh. Then, nudging Phichit’s shoulder, he adds, “Kidding. I think he was nineteen here.”

Phichit, who is twenty-three now, shakes his head. “I’m about to feel like a dirty old man, aren’t I.”

“There are worse things to feel like,” Chris replies. “Go on. Press play.”

Phichit does.

 _“Bonsoir!”_ Victor says to the camera. _“Je m’appelle Victor Nikiforov, et…”_ He keeps talking, but that’s where Phichit’s knowledge of French ends. He catches the words _Christophe Giacometti_ in there, but can’t get the context.

“What’s he saying?” Phichit asks. 

Chris shifts a little closer. “Nothing much. He’s introducing himself, and congratulating me on my senior debut.”

“Senior debut, huh? Were _you_ legal?”

“I was old enough,” Chris says. “Now hush. I’ll translate the important parts.”

Victor keeps talking, his voice softer and more fluid in French than it is in English. Chris watches the video, a fond smile on his face, and Phichit wonders just what qualifies as important enough to translate. He wants to know everything.

On screen, Victor says something that Phichit doesn’t understand in words, but the tone is unmistakably teasing, and maybe even a little embarrassed. The camera shakes a bit as the person holding it—Chris? probably Chris—laughs and says something in response. Victor flushes prettily, biting his lip.

“He says I’m an asshole who makes unreasonable demands, and that this is embarrassing,” Chris explains. “I told him that he likes it.” Victor in the video turns his back to the camera, looks over his shoulder and smiles: an expression caught somewhere between sly and sweet. Chris sighs. “I’m not wrong.”

Victor keeps his eyes locked just above and to the left of the screen. He gathers his hair in his hands and drags it leisurely over one shoulder, slowly exposing the nape of his neck, the top of his muscular back, which isn’t nearly as broad as it is now. He is slender, lithe, a fey creature, and while he’s never been Phichit’s particular cup of tea, the appeal is perfectly obvious. He’s _beautiful,_ and… and, well, Phichit isn’t _dead._

The camera pulls back a little as Victor takes a few steps away from it, and Phichit can see the interior of a hotel room now. It could be any room in any hotel in dozens of different countries—beige walls and white sheets and dark green carpet. Victor is standing next to the bed, still facing away from the camera, hair tucked over one shoulder. He is completely nude, hip cocked to the side, a challenge and an invitation all at once. His ass really is perfect. Objectively speaking. It is the platonic ideal of asses.

“Are you going to stare at it all night?” Victor says, in English, and Phichit feels _so attacked_ for a second. “Or are you going to fuck me like you said?”

Real Life Chris laughs, and so does Video Chris, who keeps the camera steady where it is. “You know I will,” Video Chris says, though it’s not the same confident purr as Phichit heard earlier. “But I want to watch you touch yourself first.”

Victor swears in French, but climbs up onto the bed and kneels there. He gathers his hair up and lets it cascade through his hands, posing like a pin-up girl. “You want the front or the back?” he asks, and now it’s Chris’s turn to swear, behind the camera. He gives his answer in French.

“I told him to surprise me,” Real Chris says, shaking his head ruefully. “Rookie mistake.”

On the screen, Victor goes quiet. So does Chris. Phichit actually holds his breath. And then…

Victor begins by reaching behind himself and resting his hands on his back, just above his hipbones. Just below the reach of his silvery hair. He arches his back into the touch, a movement that makes his ass—that perfect, perfect ass—tilt at a newer, more interesting angle. And then his hands slide lower.

He kneads the muscular flesh of his own cheeks, as if he’s massaging himself, loosening himself up—and then he turns his head. Not a lot. Just enough for the camera to catch the very edge of the catlike smile that he wears.

It’s a smile that says, _I know you’re watching._ It’s a smile that offers you a glass of wine, or a tumbler of whiskey. _Have a seat,_ it says. _I’ll take care of everything._

Phichit whistles. “You weren’t kidding. He really does love it.”

“Oh, yeah,” says Chris.

“And he’s _good_ at it,” Phichit adds.

Chris gives him a sidelong grin. “Was Yuuri not?”

Phichit doesn’t answer right away. Mostly because it’s hard to compare the two. This video right here—this is a performance. This is Victor Nikiforov who, at nineteen, was already a world-famous model in addition to being a world-famous figure skater.

Phichit’s photos of Yuuri are not a product of performance at all. Exactly the opposite, actually. Yuuri was so lost in his own pleasure that he forgot, for once, to be self-conscious—and _that_ was what made Phichit want photos in the first place. Yuuri, as nobody else ever got to see him.

“Well?” Chris prompts.

Phichit mimes zipping his lips.

“Fine, fine,” Chris says. “Here, eyes on the screen. This is a good part.”

On the screen, Victor’s smile widens, and he asks something, in French, low and sultry. Maybe _too_ low and sultry, because it makes Chris—the one holding the camera—laugh.

Then, before Phichit can ask for a translation, Victor bends over, his ass in the air. He shifts his weight entirely onto his right knee, extending the left one outward. An arabesque without a dance belt, giving the camera a shadowed first glimpse of Victor’s balls. But the stretch doesn’t end there; Victor’s left leg curves up and up and up, his right arm lifting up, back, and around to meet it.

It’s a perfect pose: elegance and grace made nearly vulgar by the lack of clothing. Victor is cloaked only in his own hair, and even that has mostly fallen over his shoulders, fully exposing the powerful arch of his back to the camera.

From the laptop’s speaker comes Chris’s voice, saying something in French—something that makes Victor laugh so hard that he falls out of the pose and collapses onto the bed, limbs flailing for purchase. Swiping his hair away from his face, he looks at the camera again and says something back.

“What was that?” Phichit asks.

“I called him a diva and a show-off.” Chris grins. “He told me that I like it. And, hey. He’s right.”

Then Chris’s voice comes through the speaker again, this time in English: “But that’s not what I asked for. I told you to touch yourself.”

Chris laughs. “Listen to me. I think this was during my trying-to-be-a-top phase.”

Phichit glances at him, curiosity piqued. “Are you not?”

“Oh, I can be when I have to, but…” Chris trails off with a shrug. “You?”

Once again, Phichit mimes zipping his lips.

“Tease,” says Chris.

“Who, me?” Phichit says innocently.

A sudden sharp cry brings their attention back to the video, where Victor has completely changed positions. Gone is the shadowy, almost artistic nudity of a moment ago; in its place is Victor on his back, thighs spread wide, knees pulled up. His dick rests, fat and pink, against his belly. A bottle of lube is next to his hip. He is pushing two shiny, slick fingers into himself.

The sounds he’s making are just shy of theatrical, but there’s a hint of genuine pain in the way he hisses in each breath.

“He never did like to start with one,” Chris says. Phichit notes the past tense, and wonders if it’s just because Chris and Victor aren’t sleeping together anymore—or if it’s because, somewhere along the way, Victor learned to take his time.

He wonders if there’s a video of _that._

The picture tightens as the camera moves closer to the bed. It focuses first on the slow, hard motion of Victor’s hand, fingers burrowing into his stretch-reddened hole—but instead of lingering there, as Phichit expects, the camera moves upward, focusing instead on Victor’s face. His eyes are clenched shut and his mouth has dropped open, panting with effort. He looks unguarded, vulnerable, almost like he’s forgotten the camera is even there.

Phichit sucks in a startled breath. “Oh,” he says. Or thinks. He’s not sure he made a sound. Beside him, Chris doesn’t move, but his stillness feels like a reaction.

A moment later, the furrow in Victor’s brow smooths out, and the corners of his lips lift in a smile, wide and inviting. He blinks his eyes open, long lashes fluttering, and the half-lidded gaze he levels at the camera is pure, deliberate sex. The shot pulls back, shifts downward to where Victor’s fingers are moving steadily, easily now, his thumb brushing the underside of his balls with each stroke.

“So, Christophe Giacometti,” he purrs, though his eyes are definitely on the camera itself, not the man holding it. “Are you gonna let me have your cock now, or are you gonna make me beg for it?”

Video Chris laughs, but it’s a breathy sound, a little forced. “You’ll have to work harder than that if you want my cock.”

Victor responds by biting his lip and pushing a third finger in on the next thrust. “Harder like this?”

“It’s a start,” Chris says, changing the angle of the video so it’s looking down on Victor from above. His silver hair is fanned out on the pillow underneath him, already tangled and mussed from the way he’s been tossing his head. It should look like a halo, probably. But it doesn’t. 

A hand enters the frame, broad and tan against the porcelain of Victor’s skin, and Victor gasps when it touches his thigh. The hand slides up until it’s hooked under Victor’s knee, pushing his bent leg flat against his chest. Video Chris says something in French, a low rumble of words that sound vaguely like an order. And maybe it is, judging by the way that Victor lowers his eyes, lifts his free hand to his mouth and makes a show of licking his palm, tongue slipping in between his fingers as a tease.

Victor’s spit-slick hand wraps around his cock, which has been lying half-hard against his belly, and gives a few slow strokes. Then he looks up again, his bright eyes regarding the camera from under the veil of his pale lashes. He pouts prettily as he gives himself one more stroke, his grip tightening visibly over his swelling cockhead, and then he says, “Mmm. _Comme ça?”_

Video Chris murmurs something back, also in French—and while Phichit doesn’t understand the words, he definitely understands the heat behind them. He also understands the small tenderness that is Chris’s thumb on Victor’s skin, just beside the crease of his knee, brushing back and forth, soothing and steady.

Victor nods, and as Chris keeps talking, he keeps stroking: alternating long, slow strokes up the length of his shaft with short, rounded movements over the head. Pausing only to spit in his hand again. All the while, he’s still fucking himself slowly, so slowly, on the three fingers of his other hand.

Phichit watches, enraptured, as Victor’s cock grows stiffer in his hand. Longer and fatter. Darker. Victor moans again, turning his head to the side as he lets his eyelids flutter closed. Phichit can still feel the performance behind it—it would be impossible not to—but it’s still… well, it’s gorgeous, is what it is.

“Yuuri will love this,” he murmurs.

Chris’s response is a touch of one hand on Phichit’s thigh, just high enough that Phichit’s focus is drawn suddenly, painfully away from the video and onto his own body.

His own body, which has become very invested in the events unfolding on the screen.

He wriggles his hips a little, trying to adjust himself. But he’s in a formal suit, and the trousers were meant to flatter Phichit while he was dancing at his best friend’s wedding—which is to say, they are very, very tight. Even tighter now that Phichit’s dick is starting to get unwelcome ideas about nineteen-year-old Victor Nikiforov.

Well, maybe not _entirely_ unwelcome. But still.

“There might be more wedding party photos later,” Chris says with a sly raise of an eyebrow. “You don’t want to get your trousers dirty.”

“I can control myself,” Phichit says wryly.

“I’m sure you can,” Chris replies, “but, honestly, why bother? I’m just saying, if it were _me_ seeing this for the first time? I’d definitely take my pants off and put them somewhere else. Just for safekeeping.”

Something thrills inside Phichit’s chest. It’s becoming increasingly obvious that he and Chris aren’t going to leave this room without hooking up first—but how best to get there? Should he hold back and see how far Chris is willing to push him? Should he grab Chris’s hand and put it on his dick? Should he put his _own_ hand on _Chris’s_ dick?

On the screen, Video Chris is talking again, a low murmur of French that has Victor nodding, his eyes still closed. Victor’s hand, the one not buried in his own ass, comes up to circle the ridge of his cock, the pad of his index finger coming up to swipe over the head. Back and forth, back and forth, smearing clear fluid over pink skin. Then Chris says something else, and Victor’s finger arcs just so—and the edge of his fingernail digs into his slit, making him gasp.

Phichit shivers.

In another part of the screen, Phichit sees Victor’s leg—the one Chris is holding flush against his chest—straighten. It extends above his head, beyond where the frame ends. Of course he was that flexible. Show-off.

“Safekeeping, huh?” Phichit says, and reaches for his zipper. Chris turns his head for a better look, eyes following the movement in a way that’s anything but subtle. Phichit opens the tab and button on his trousers, lets his fingers linger on the zipper pull. He slides it down slowly, lets the fabric part slightly around the burgeoning swell of his cock, but makes no move to undress further. He grins, taking his hand away. “I think you’ll need to try a bit harder than that to get my pants off, Mr. Giacometti.”

“Tease!” Chris laughs, eyes still locked on Phichit’s open fly. “Wait, is that… is that lace?”

It is. If you can’t wear your sexy red special occasion panties on the day of your best friend’s wedding, then when can you wear them? Plus, the thong back means that Phichit doesn’t have to worry about underwear lines. It’s pretty _and_ it’s practical.

“Are you ever going to fuck Victor, or is he just going to stretch his legs and jerk himself off?” Phichit asks, focusing on the video again. “Not that I have a problem with that, but…”

As if on cue, the video shakes, a confusing jumble of sheets and ceiling and skin, and then the camera is looking up at where Victor is obviously straddling Chris’s hips. His hair falls in a messy curtain of silver, and he sweeps it up and over one shoulder with an elegant wave of his hand. Half his face is cast in shadow where it still blocks the lamplight, and his smile is wicked. He grinds his hips down, a sinuous twist, and Chris groans loud and low.

“How about this?” Victor asks, raking his nails lightly down Chris’s chest. “Is this hard enough for you?”

 _“Fuck,”_ Video Chris says, a choked out sound that can’t decide if it wants to be a laugh or a moan. It’s a sound Phichit definitely wants to hear in person someday. Maybe today. Later. Video Chris continues: “That was terrible.”

“You’re terrible,” Victor counters, keeping up the slow roll of his hips. “Making me beg for it like you aren’t dying for me to sit on your pretty cock.”

Chris does laugh then, a breathy little chuckle. “I don’t hear you begging.”

Victor drops his head, closes his eyes and exhales like he’s preparing for a jump. Phichit leans forward in anticipation.

 _“Please,”_ Victor says, so quiet it’s barely audible. “Please, Chris, I… god, I _need_ it.” His eyes open, wide and pleading, and holy shit, puppy-dog eyes should _not_ be that sexy. “Please, _please_ , I need you inside me, need to feel you…” He switches seamlessly into French, and even though Phichit can’t understand the exact words, it’s so very obvious what he’s saying.

“Unfair,” Video Chris and Real Life Chris say in unison. Phichit laughs, and Real Life Chris shakes his head. “Victor fights dirty,” he says. “I almost feel sorry for Yuuri.”

“Oh, don’t even,” Phichit says. “I might be missing a bit because of the language thing, but so far Victor is not even close to Yuuri’s level.”

Chris raises a curious eyebrow. “His level of begging, or his level of shameless dirty talk?”

“Both, really,” Phichit says. Then, a beat too late, he realizes he’s revealed too much. Chris looks _delighted._

“I’ll get those pics out of you yet,” he says.

Phichit shakes his head. “Nuh-uh, no way. Besides,” he adds, pressing himself a little closer to Chris’s side. “Pics wouldn’t give you those details.”

Chris looks thoughtful, and runs his fingers lightly over Phichit’s inseam. “Hmm… You’ve got a point there. All those memories are locked inside that adorable head of yours.” With his fingertip lingering just centimeters away from the red fabric between Phichit’s legs, Chris looks up at him through his lashes. “Which makes a fellow wonder where the key is.”

“There’s no key,” Phichit says. “I am sworn to secrecy, on pain of—”

Chris cups him through the thong. Phichit’s entire body jerks at the suddenness of it, the end of his sentence lost in a gasp.

“Do go on,” Chris says, his eyes slitting dangerously. “On pain of what?”

“On pain… of, um, uh…”

The heel of Chris’s hand is pressing into him, rubbing, rubbing. He can’t think.

“You want me to stop?” Chris asks. He’s clearly teasing, but there’s just enough of a serious edge to it that Phichit knows it’s a real question.

Shaking his head no, he lets his eyelids flutter closed.

Chris laughs softly. “Hey, don’t look away. We haven’t even gotten to the good part of the video yet.”

So Phichit opens his eyes. He spares a quick glance at Chris, who’s watching him keenly, before looking back at the screen.

In the video, Victor’s mouth is being fucked, slowly and steadily, by two fingers that clearly do not belong to him. His eyes are laser-focused on the camera, and a low moan emanates from him. His hips are still rolling, moving to the rhythm set by Chris’s fingers, and a lock of his hair has fallen over his shoulder again, lending him an appearance even more disheveled than before.

It takes another moment for Phichit to notice that Real Chris has started to match his past self’s rhythm, too. Video Chris’s fingers, Victor’s hips, and Real Chris’s palm, all moving in unison.

“God,” Phichit says. The word comes out gravelly.

Present Chris leans over and nips the lobe of Phichit’s ear. He whispers, “Take your pants off. Please.”

Phichit musters just enough self-control to throw Chris a smirk. “But we haven’t even gotten to the good part of the video yet.”

Chris groans.

On the screen, Victor lets Chris’s fingers slip out of his mouth, and then murmurs something in French. And then, in English, so sincerely that Phichit nearly forgets that it’s a performance: “I’ve been dreaming of you, Christophe. I’ve been _longing._ Please don’t make me wait anymore. Please. Fill me up, Chris. Let me ride you. I can make you feel so good. You know I can…”

Video Chris laughs: a rumbling sound that sits low in his throat. He responds in French. And that’s when the camera moves. It focuses lower and lower, until the frame captures Victor’s torso, and Chris’s beneath it, and not a single bit of Victor’s face. As it zooms in, Victor raises himself up, just enough that Phichit gets a sudden and fully detailed view of Chris’s cock framed between Victor’s thighs—and then, Victor starts to lower himself down again. Slowly. Slowly.

But instead of taking Chris inside him, he uses one hand to hold Chris in place as he begins to move his hips again, using the tip of Chris’s cock to tease himself. Tossing his head back, he moans at the sensation.

“Oh, fuck you, you fucking drama queen!” says Video Chris, his voice full of barely-suppressed laughter. “Just do it already, will you?”

Victor laughs too. “Now who’s begging?”

And as Video Chris’s cock slowly disappears into Victor’s body, Present Chris grinds the palm of his hand against Phichit, whose lacy thong is doing very little to hide how much he is enjoying this. Phichit sucks in a breath and holds it for a second, trying to keep his hips still and his eyes open.

On screen, Victor exhales a shuddery breath, tipping his head further back to expose his long, slender throat. He sounds blissful, _relieved,_ like Chris’s dick is a miracle he’s been waiting his entire life for; like he hadn’t known he was in pain until it was washed away by pleasure.

“Oh,” he gasps, “Oh yes, _yes,_ you feel so good…”

It should sound fake. It probably _is_ fake. But there’s something achingly sincere in Victor’s voice.

Video Chris snaps his hips up, and Victor cries out, a short startled yelp as he falls forward; face just barely back into frame. His mouth is open wide, his lips bitten red, and his pale skin flushes all the way down past his collarbones. Chris chuckles and bucks his hips again at the same angle. “Right there, baby? Is that where you want it?”

Victor licks his lips and leans back again. The flush keeps spreading downwards, betraying his arousal, but his voice sounds more controlled. “Mmm… _ah!_ Yes, _yes,_ but wait… slow down.” He presses one hand against Chris’s chest, bracing himself as the other comes up to circle his own hard cock, stroking lightly up and down, pulling it away from his stomach like he’s presenting it to the camera. Showing it off.

“I thought you wanted me to work harder,” Victor teases, grinding on Chris’s cock, slow and filthy. “So why don’t you just relax and let me take it?”

Phichit groans, though he’s not totally sure if it’s because of what’s happening on screen or what’s happening _in his pants,_ where Chris’s fingers are starting to get bold - teasing at the crease of his thigh, just dipping under the lace, playing with his panty line. It’s not enough to make him come, not even enough to get him close, but it feels really good. And it’s _really_ distracting.

“I…” he starts. Stops. Tries again. “I had no idea.”

Chris hums, curious. “No idea about what, darling?”

“No idea that Victor was such a _bottom,_ oh my _god.”_

“Oh, he switches,” Chris laughs, something fond, almost _proud,_ in his voice. “He can dish it out just as well as he takes it, believe me.”

Watching the video, the fluid way Victor fucks himself on Chris’s cock, Phichit finds that hard to believe.

“Do you have a video of that, too?” he asks, because he needs to see some goddamn evidence.

“Are you asking if I have a recording of Victor fucking me?” Chris counters, curling his fingers down to cup Phichit’s balls through the lace. “If I have video of him bending me over the end of the bed and licking into me until I’m sobbing for it, then fucking me so hard I can barely walk afterwards?”

Phichit imagines it. If that video exists, he may not survive it. If Chris doesn’t stop _moving his hand…_

“Oh god, oh _fuck,_ uh… maybe not that exact thing, but uh…”

Chris pulls his hand back, sliding just his fingertips up Phichit’s cock, and Phichit bites his lip to stifle a whimper as he teases the tip, which has completely escaped the panties at this point. 

“Well, now I know what we’re watching next,” Chris says. And then his hand is gone, leaving Phichit’s cock fully hard and bereft of touch.

With the hand that _wasn’t_ just fondling Phichit through his underwear, Chris pauses the video. Victor is frozen with his hooded eyes fixed on the camera, his dick clutched loosely in his fist, and his hips lifted just enough that Phichit can see an inch or so of Chris’s cock between their bodies.

“I wonder how many fans would die of a heart attack if that shot ever got out?” Phichit says.

“Tell me about it,” says Chris with a laugh, and closes the video. “All right, how about… this one? No! Ooh, no. _This_ one.” He clicks another file, and a new video pops up, filling the screen with a shot of someone’s erect cock and not much else.

“Is that you?” Phichit says with a laugh, even though it obviously is. The torso it’s attached to is too tanned to be Victor’s.

Instead of replying, Chris stands up, unzips his pants, and pulls them down to his thighs, along with his underwear. It all happens in a matter of seconds, and then Phichit finds himself staring at the live-and-in-person version of… yup, that’s definitely the exact same cock.

“Thought so,” Phichit says lightly, and grins up at Chris like his mouth isn’t watering for it, like his own balls aren’t tightening in response to the sight. “Now put that thing away before you stab someone’s eye out.”

“So mean,” Chris says. “Not even a single stroke. Not even a ‘Goodness, you have a very attractive penis, Christophe.’ I’m hurt.”

“I’ve seen better,” Phichit teases. “That guy on the screen, for instance….”

“Oh, _him,”_ Chris says derisively, glancing at the laptop. “He’s pretty, sure, but he’s _way_ too full of himself.” He waggles his eyebrows at Phichit. “What would you say to watching him get taken down a peg?”

Phichit presses his hand to his heart and says solemnly, “I’ve never wanted anything more.”

So Chris kneels down on the rug again, and presses play.

On the screen, Past Chris brings his hand up to stroke himself for the camera’s benefit. Once, twice. Then he leans down so his face fills the screen instead. _“Bonsoir, mes amis,”_ he says, and then he’s gone.

In his place is a wide shot of another hotel room, with a bed at its center. Standing near the foot of the bed, already completely naked, is Victor. The camera is too far away for Phichit to make out the details of his face, but his stance is clear. Where before he was demure and submissive, now he’s more… solid. His hips and shoulders are squared, his feet planted firmly on the hotel carpet. His hair is tied back from his face.

His cock, interestingly, is hanging small and soft between his legs.

“Are you finished yet?” he says—and even his voice is different. There’s more weight to it. It _commands._

The screen brightens a little bit—apparently Chris was adjusting some settings—and then comes Chris’s reply: “Yes. Got it. Sorry that took so long.”

“Good,” says Victor. “Then you can come over here and get on your knees for me.”

Chris’s body enters the frame again, this time moving away from the camera and toward Victor. And he kneels: a years-ago echo of the Chris that’s kneeling beside Phichit right now. His back is to the camera, a three-quarters view that keeps most of his face hidden, but shows off the lines of his body beautifully. His shoulders are muscular and masculine, tapering gently into a slender waist that curves into a surprisingly ample backside. There’s a large bruise wrapped around his hip, down onto his thigh, ugly and purple-red, and Phichit hisses as he recognizes the mark of a bad fall on the ice.

“That’s better,” Victor says, tipping Chris’s face up with his thumb and forefinger. “I don’t like being kept waiting.”

“I’m sorry,” Chris says, but it ends in a surprised gasp as Victor digs his fingers into his face, holding his mouth shut.

“I don’t want apologies. In fact, just keep your mouth shut until I tell you.” Victor releases his grip, sliding his fingers back almost tenderly over Chris’s cheek and through the short buzz of hair at his temple. Chris leans into the touch like a cat, nuzzling the inside of Victor’s wrist.

“Good boy,” Victor says, and Video Chris shudders. Phichit is halfway to saying something snarky about it, but when he looks at the Chris next to him, sees the way his cock twitches at the praise, the way his eyes have gone a little glassy, he decides to hold his commentary for later. After all, praise is something he’s very good at giving, and something tells him he’s going to need every advantage he can get once the tension between them finally breaks.

“What should I do with you?” Victor asks, idly stroking Video Chris’s hair, almost like he’s petting a dog.

In response, Chris leans forward, obediently keeping his mouth closed as he tries to brush his lips against Victor’s cock. The hand in his hair goes tight, pulls him back, and the soft whimper Chris makes at the treatment doesn’t sound anything like pain.

Victor’s face is impassive, one eyebrow raised in mild curiosity. “You think you deserve that?” he asks. “You think I should give you a taste?”

Chris nods, and Victor makes a show of considering it. His cock is starting to thicken between his thighs, and Chris swallows heavily, staring at it.

“I suppose you might as well be useful,” Victor sighs, as if it’s a tremendous hardship to get a blowjob. “Go ahead, open up.”

The order is barely given before Chris’s mouth is on Victor, enveloping his cock entirely, sucking it slowly, indulgently. Chris’s eyes fall shut, his nose buried in neatly trimmed platinum curls, his lips wet and tight and gradually stretching wider around the hardening length in his mouth. His cheeks are red, and his eyelashes are damp and sinfully long, and he’s so gorgeous Phichit forgets to breathe for a moment.

Real Life Chris sighs. “He’s so sexy, isn’t he?”

For a second, Phichit wonders if Chris is really that much of a narcissist—and then he realizes: it’s Victor. He’s talking about Victor.

But when Phichit replies, “Yeah, for sure,” he’s not talking about Victor at all.

Eventually, Victor steps back, extricating his cock from Chris’s mouth—and Chris lets out a whimper at the sudden lack of contact. He looks like he means it, too—and when he says something to Victor in French, his voice sounds so forlorn that Phichit feels it squarely in his chest.

Victor, though, just smiles. Tightens his hand in Chris’s hair and says, in English, “Not yet.” Then he lets Chris go, twisting his wrist just enough that Chris is thrown off balance. Not enough to fall, but enough that he has to catch himself on one hand. Victor smiles and says something else. French again.

“What’s he saying?” Phichit asks.

“Instructions,” Chris replies—and his voice is pitched lower than before. “He’s saying… he’s…” Chris swallows. “You’ll see. We do all of it. Just…”

This video is clearly doing it for Chris in a way that the previous one wasn’t. There’s the voice thing. There’s the way Chris is leaning forward, like he wants to jump right back into the scene. There’s the way his cock has started leaking.

Without even pausing to think about it, Phichit reaches over to swipe a single finger over the tip of Chris’s cock. Chris yelps at the suddenness of it, and turns to look at Phichit, who’s already stuck the rogue finger in his mouth so he can taste the salty fluid.

“I was curious,” says Phichit, by way of explanation. “Eyes on the screen, Giacometti.”

Chris looks shocked. Well, three parts shocked, one part pleased. But he does what Phichit tells him to do. Hands curling into fists on his thighs, he looks firmly back at the screen.

In the video, Chris is climbing onto the bed, presumably on Victor’s orders. He arranges himself on elbows and knees, his bare ass facing the camera. Victor, who’s been watching quietly, looks back and forth between Chris and the camera and says, “Good.” Then he rests one pale, slender hand on Chris’s cheek, rubbing, caressing, then pulling away.

Then, Victor strikes him so hard that Chris shouts at the impact. Once, twice, three times. Then three times on the other cheek. And then Victor’s hands go gentle again, caressing Chris’s reddened ass as he murmurs something in a voice so low that Phichit can’t tell which language he’s speaking.

Chris, though, replies in English: “Yeah. Yes. Keep going.”

So Victor does it again. Three strikes to each cheek, followed by a gentle massage. Phichit looks over at the Chris beside him: eyes still firmly fixed on the screen, cock still leaking, hands still fisted.

Phichit reaches over and touches one of those fisted hands. “Relax,” he says—and while he didn’t mean for it to be an order, Chris obeys anyway, unfurling his fingers, splaying his palms on his thighs.

On the screen, Victor is coming toward the camera. Then he’s leaning over and—oh, he’s picking it up. Bringing it with him as he goes back over to Chris. Then the screen is full of Chris’s ass: two reddened cheeks framing a pink, puckered hole. Victor is narrating, maybe in French and maybe in English, and Phichit absolutely doesn’t care which one. He has completely stopped paying attention to Victor.

“The guy on screen also has a better ass than me,” Chris says. “Just so you know.”

Phichit replies, “I’ll be the judge of that.”

“Will you?” Chris asks, halfway between flippant and hopeful.

Phichit slides his hand up from where it rests on Chris’s own, over the bunched up fabric of his pants, until he can touch bare skin, fingertips kissing the crease of Chris’s thigh. “I think I will.”

Chris exhales, long and slow.

The camera angle is wider now, and the frame isn’t moving anymore. Victor must have set it down again, because now he’s standing next to the bed, both hands on Chris’s hips. His skin looks especially pale against the dark mottle of purple and black that mars Chris’s flesh. He digs his fingers in, and Chris cries out, face buried against his own bicep.

“What do we say, Christophe?” Victor asks, using his thumbs to spread Chris’s ass open as his fingers keep pressing hard into the bruise.

“Please,” Chris replies, immediately, obediently. “Please, sir, _please,_ whatever you want. _Use me…”_

“Good boy,” Victor says again, smiling this time. He leans in and touches the tip of his tongue to the base of Chris’s tailbone, a quick teasing flick that promises more. “Stay still for me.”

And as Victor licks his way downward, Video Chris’s hands fist in the sheets, his mouth parted against his arm, teeth biting into the muscle to hold himself back, fighting so hard to keep himself still. To be good, as Victor licks and sucks him open.

Under his hand, Phichit can feel the tense and release of Chris’s thigh, the way his hips want to move. He shifts his fingers down, reaching further between Chris’s legs, and Chris spreads his thighs as wide as he can with his pants in the way. It’s enough for Phichit to turn his hand, to cradle his balls in his palm as he presses his fingertips up into the smooth place just behind.

Chris arches, shivers, grinds his hips down against the pressure. He also hits the space bar on the laptop, stopping the video.

“Hey,” Phichit says, twisting to face Chris without moving his hand. “I was watching that.”

Chris’s eyes are dark and intent, his voice rough. “Were you?”

Phichit rocks his hand between Chris’s legs. He leans in closer. “Not really, no.”

And suddenly Phichit is on his back on the carpet, his hand trapped between their bodies as Chris presses him into the floor and kisses him breathless. One of Chris’s hands is on the back of his neck, keeping him close, while the other tugs open the studs on Phichit’s tuxedo shirt like they’re personally offending him. Once the shirt is open, bow tie loose and mostly on the floor, Chris runs his hand up Phichit’s bare side. Fuck, he’s got big hands.

Chris pulls back from the kiss. He laughs a little when Phichit tries to follow, but it’s been a really long time, and this is really hot, and Phichit is absolutely _not_ going to be embarrassed about how eager he is.

There’s a flush on Chris’s cheeks. He looks better than he did in either of the videos.

 _“Now_ will you take your pants off?” he asks, tugging at Phichit’s open fly.

“Nope,” Phichit replies. Then, at Chris’s confused look, he adds, “I think _you’ll_ take my pants off. And yours too, while you’re at it.”

Chris doesn’t waste a single second. With one last painfully-chaste kiss pressed to Phichit’s lips, Chris gets up and wriggles out of his dress pants. Then, after a split second of hesitation, he gets rid of his underwear and his socks and his shirt, too. Only after that’s done does he crouch over Phichit again and, with much more care than he gave to his own clothes, undresses him from the waist down.

Phichit laces his hands behind his head, a makeshift pillow against the carpeted floor, and lets it happen.

Carefully, Chris peels the lace thong away. It isn’t covering much, by this point, but the absence of it still sends a thrill shooting up Phichit’s body. And when Chris takes a second to run an admiring hand up the length of Phichit’s fully-exposed cock, Phichit tenses in anticipation of… a hand job? A blowjob? He bites his lip and waits to find out.

But then Chris’s hand is gone, and Chris is crawling up the length of him again—just like before, only without clothes in the way.

“My shirt,” Phichit says.

“What about it?” Chris murmurs, his lips just inches away from Phichit’s.

“It’s still… on me.”

“So what?” Chris says. It’s a good point. All the buttons are undone, and Phichit can feel Chris’s chest hot against his own, and does it really matter if it gets rumpled or a little sweaty? It’d probably be getting rumpled and sweaty out on the dance floor, too. Plus he can cover it up with his jacket.

“Yeah,” Phichit says, and pulls Chris down for another frantic kiss. He thrusts his tongue into Chris’s mouth, thrusts his hips up against Chris’s belly—and Chris moves with him, a delicious friction that has Phichit’s cock leaking between them, slicking the skin of both their bellies.

Phichit clutches at Chris’s broad body, raking his nails down his back, grinning into Chris’s mouth at the moan he’s rewarded with. He digs his nails in harder, and the moans grow deeper and guttural. Phichit lets out a laugh—which is when Chris pulls away for the second time. Somehow, he gets hold of Phichit’s hands, pinning them to the carpet on either side of his head.

“You,” Chris pants, red-cheeked and bright-eyed, “are incredibly hot. Has anyone ever told you how incredibly hot you are?”

“Oh, at least three times a day,” Phichit says. “And I’m sure _nobody’s_ ever called _you_ hot.”

“Brat,” says Chris, rolling his hips against Phichit, making him suck in a breath. “You think I’m hot, hmm?”

Phichit frowns. “Hmm. I’ll have to give that some thought. Can I get back to you tomorrow?”

“No problem,” Chris says without missing a beat—and then, in a flash, he’s off of Phichit again and back on his feet. With a wink, he says, “But it’d better be _early_ tomorrow. Hotel checkout’s at noon, and my flight leaves at four.”

Then he actually starts gathering his clothes up, like he’s actually going to leave, which… fuck. Phichit’s tempted to call Chris’s bluff. He really is. Because he _knows_ it’s a bluff. But he finds, suddenly, that he can’t stand even the _idea_ of Chris walking out in the middle of this.

Climbing to his feet, Phichit darts over to Chris and swats his shirt out of his hands again, then kisses him fiercely.

“Yes,” he says, arms snaking around Chris’s waist, keeping him firmly in place. “I think you’re hot.” He grins. “Although, right now, I kind of think you’d be hotter on your knees.”

“Is that so?” Chris replies, pushing Phichit’s shirt off his shoulders. “Well, _I_ kind of think you still owe me some information.” He bends down to bite at the base of Phichit’s throat, all sharp teeth and teasing tongue.

“I’m not— _ah!_ I’m not showing you those pictures,” Phichit says. Because he made a promise to Yuuri. But Chris is kissing his neck like he wants to leave a mark, and Chris just showed him those videos, and Chris deserves _something_ in return, doesn’t he? Phichit thinks fast. Thinks about Chris on his knees for Victor, eagerly following instructions. He says, slowly, “There’s something else I could do instead, though…” 

Chris makes a pleased hum against Phichit’s throat. “And what’s that, darling?” 

What is that? Good question. Oh, _oh god,_ Chris has a hand on Phichit’s chest now. He’s dragging his thumb back and forth over one of Phichit’s nipples, and what was he supposed to be thinking about? Oh. Right.

“You can ask me questions,” Phichit says, proud of how steady and firm his voice is. “And I’ll tell you yes or no.” He rakes his nails up Chris’s back, too hard to tickle but not quite enough to hurt, and Chris practically purrs under the touch.

“And,” Phichit adds, pressing even closer, until they’re touching from chest to cock, “I might even give you some details. If you’re a really good boy.”

Chris’s dick twitches between them, and there’s something approving and playful in his expression. “Oh, I _like_ this game. How do we start?”

Phichit smiles. “Well, first I’d really like to see you on your knees for me. And then you can ask a question.”

Chris sinks to his knees with no hesitation, his hands reaching out to rest on Phichit’s bare hips. “Like this?”

“Is that your question?” Phichit teases, and laughs when Chris rolls his eyes at him.

“Brat,” Chris says again, mostly to himself. “Okay. Were you and Yuuri lovers, or was it strictly dildos out of boredom?”

“That’s two questions,” Phichit says. “Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

“Fine, then,” Chris concedes. “Just the first part. Were you lovers?”

Phichit shakes his head. “No.” He pushes his hands through Chris’s hair. “Kiss me.”

Chris leans forward and presses a chaste kiss against Phichit’s hipbone. “And you weren’t fuckbuddies?”

“I really hate that phrase,” Phichit says, wrinkling his nose in distaste. “But not really, no. Kiss me again.”

Chris gives his other hipbone the same treatment. “But you did have sex, right? Aside from the dildos.”

“Oh, yes,” Phichit says. “But our friendship has always been more important than anything else. I don’t really think there’s a word for that. Again,” he orders. “And open your mouth this time.”

He’s expecting another kiss to the hip, or maybe his belly, somewhere teasingly close to his cock, which he knows Chris won’t touch until he’s told. So Phichit is surprised when Chris slides his hands down the outside of his legs, and bends nearly all the way to the floor to kiss the top of his foot, warm and wet and open-mouthed, with just a tiny bit of tongue. Phichit’s breath catches at the touch, and when Chris looks up at him through his long, long lashes, it catches again.

“Are you thinking about fucking me right now?” Chris asks innocently.

“I, ah—” Phichit cuts himself off abruptly. “Hey, I didn’t say those kinds of questions were allowed.”

Chris sits back on his heels, folding his hands demurely in his lap. Or at least it would look demure if not for his nakedness and his obvious arousal. “You said yes-or-no questions. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t seem to recall any other parameters.”

 _“Now_ who’s the brat?” Phichit mutters. “Kiss me again. Twice this time.”

So Chris bends and presses a similarly wet kiss to Phichit’s other foot; it’s all Phichit can do not to shiver out of his own skin. And when Chris tilts his head so he can reach Phichit’s calf with his mouth, Phichit actually bites his lip to keep from crying out at the strange intimacy of it.

“Does Yuuri have a bigger dick than me?” Chris asks, grinning slyly up at Phichit.

Phichit takes a few deep breaths before he can trust himself to answer. “No. Not length-wise, anyway. You’re about the same size. His is a little fatter, though.”

“Ahh, Victor must love that,” Chris says. “Another kiss, sir?”

The _sir_ jolts Phichit almost as much as the first foot-kiss did. It reminds him of the Chris in the video. _Use me. Whatever you want. Please, sir._ Chris had been so pliant, so willing, so utterly gorgeous….

“Kiss me here,” Phichit says breathlessly, and slides a hand under his cock, holding it out toward Chris.

Chris leans forward and presses his lips, almost chastely, to the tip of Phichit’s cock, sending a warm ripple of sensation through him. He fists a hand in Chris’s hair, and when Chris lets his lips part, just enough to swipe his tongue across Phichit’s slit, Phichit gasps and says, “Good. Good.”

Encouraged by the praise, Chris opens his mouth wider, taking the entire head of Phichit’s cock inside. Phichit has one blissful moment of losing himself to the suction of it, the tightening circle of Chris’s lips, the playfulness of Chris’s tongue, before remembering the game. The game that he is _not_ done playing yet.

“I said _kiss_ me,” Phichit says, using Chris’s hair to pull him off. “Not give me a blowjob. Don’t you know the difference?”

“I do, sir. Sorry, sir.” But as Chris licks his lips, a grin tugs at his mouth, and he looks up again. “But you enjoyed it, sir, so I’m not _too_ sorry. Sir.”

Well, there’s no point in arguing with that one. Phichit shakes his head, fighting a smile. “Next question.”

“Did you ever bottom for Yuuri?”

Phichit raises his eyebrows. “Sure. Not very often, but a few times. Touch yourself.”

Chris blinks. “How?”

Phichit grins. “I don’t care. But nothing complicated. I’m giving you ten seconds, then you’re cut off.”

Chris grips his cock and strokes it once, twice, three times, before moving his hand to the tip. Taking his foreskin between thumb and forefinger, he rolls it, sliding it across the head, teasing himself until—

“Time,” says Phichit, who’s kind of proud of himself for remembering how to count.

When Chris lets go, his hand is shaking. He exhales hard and looks up again, and Phichit is _definitely_ proud of how wrecked he seems to be. “Is he good?” Chris asks. “When he fucks you.”

 _“Is_ he good?” Phichit says thoughtfully. “Well, I don’t know. I haven’t slept with him in years.”

“Fuck you, oh my god, _was,”_ Chris groans. _“Was_ he good?”

Phichit wags his finger at him. “You didn’t earn that question, Chris.” He presses that chastising finger against Chris’s lips. “Open up,” he orders, pushing two fingers into Chris’s mouth and slipping them lazily in and out. Chris doesn’t close his lips around them, because he wasn’t told to; just lets Phichit stroke wetly over his tongue.

And really obedience like that should be rewarded. “Suck,” he says, and Chris does. “If you’re concerned on Victor’s behalf, you really shouldn’t be. He’s never been dedicated to anything as much as he is to the study of Victor Nikiforov, so I’m certain he’s figured out most of Victor’s needs by now. And Yuuri’s a pleaser, you know, he wants everyone to be happy and taken care of.” Phichit keeps slowly fucking his fingers into Chris’s mouth for a moment, then pulls them free. There’s a soft _pop_ of the suction breaking when Chris lets them go.

“I’m sure they’re very happy,” Chris says, sly. “But that’s not what I asked.”

Phichit laughs. “Was he good?” he repeats. “He was good enough, but I’m sure he’s gotten much better. Nobody’s great at it when they’ve never done it before.” 

Chris’s eyes light up and, a beat too late, Phichit realizes what he’s just admitted.

“Phichit,” Chris purrs. “Tell me how to earn my next question, please.”

“Oh, we both know what you’re going to ask,” Phichit mutters. “Bite me,” he adds, unsure whether it’s an order or if he’s just irritated.

Chris takes it as the former, leans up and sinks his teeth into the soft flesh of Phichit’s inner thigh. His stubbled cheek brushes against Phichit’s balls, and Phichit makes a soft, shocked sound at the dual sensations. Chris bites down harder, just for a second, then soothes the sting with a kiss before sitting back on his heels.

“Were you Yuuri’s first?” he asks, looking far too delighted at the prospect.

Phichit sighs, longsuffering. “Yes. Play with your nipples.”

Chris does, immediately, though it doesn’t seem to do much for him. “Was he _your_ first?”

“No,” Phichit replies. “Do you have lube?”

“In my bag.” Chris tilts his head toward the grooming kit next to the table. Phichit kneels down to rifle through the bag, coming up with a small bottle. 

“Stop touching your chest,” Phichit orders, tossing the lube to Chris, who catches it.

“Do I get a question for that?” Chris asks, and Phichit laughs.

“Yes, and that was it. Good job.” 

Chris starts to protest, but Phichit leans down and silences him with a kiss. After a moment, Phichit draws back, lies down on the carpet again and pulls his legs up. “You can ask another question,” he says, “then I want your fingers inside me.”

“Have you always been this bossy?” Chris asks, opening up the bottle so he can slick up his fingers.

Phichit laughs; it comes out strained. His skin is practically vibrating with the need to be touched. “If you keep wasting your questions, Giacometti—”

“That _was_ my question,” Chris says smoothly, and bends over to kiss Phichit’s knee. Bright green eyes lock onto his, so intense that it nearly steals his breath away; Phichit feels a cool, wet finger between his legs, just behind his balls.

He thinks about reminding Chris, again, that his questions are supposed to be about Yuuri, but that finger is circling closer and closer, then it’s sliding smoothly over his hole, and it feels _so good_ and Chris wants to know about _him_ and—

“Yeah,” Phichit says. “Yeah, I really have.”

Chris’s finger crooks, dipping into Phichit’s body, making him gasp. “Good to know,” says Chris, pressing even further in, watching Phichit’s face the whole time.

He needs to give Chris another order. One question, one order. That’s how this works. But he can’t think like this. He can’t think of anything else he wants except _more._

“I…”

But the words won’t come. Chris smiles down at him, crooks his finger, and asks, “Good?”

“Y-yeah…”

“What would Yuuri do next, in my place?” Chris asks.

It’s not a yes-or-no, but fuck it. Phichit doesn’t care.

“Yuuri would… he’d, um…” Think. Think. He has to think. How did it go, when Yuuri was on top? It varied, of course, but Yuuri had his patterns, just like everyone did. “He’d usually, um—he’d kiss my chest. And give me another finger.”

So Chris bends down, pressing his lips to the center of Phichit’s chest, right under his clavicle. He moves down slowly, slowly, occasionally swiping his tongue softly over Phichit’s skin. And then he turns his head to the side, letting— _oh!_ —letting his stubbled cheek brush against one sensitive nipple.

Phichit whines into the wave of sensation, and Chris keeps on rubbing his cheek against the delicate flesh. As Phichit wriggles and squirms beneath him, Chris slides a second finger into Phichit’s body, expanding him even more.

Chris raises his head just enough to close his lips over Phichit’s nipple: a wet, soothing balm after the sandpapery sensation of just a moment ago. Phichit sighs into it, relaxing into the soft rhythm of Chris’s tongue.

“The other one,” Phichit says. “Do the other one.”

“Don’t I get—? I mean, I’m _pretty sure_ I get a question first,” says Chris.

Phichit lets out a laugh. “Sure. Yeah, sure, go ahead.”

Chris’s thumb stretches up, the nail scraping against Phichit’s balls, making him gasp. Chris grins. “Did Yuuri ever tell you what an absolutely incredible body you have?” he asks, and brushes his cheek against Phichit’s other nipple.

Even though he knew it was coming, the sensation makes Phichit buck. It’s rough and gorgeous and _focused_. Just as focused as the pair of fingers sliding slowly in and out of him. Just as focused as the thumbnail scraping idly back and forth across his balls. He is three points of pleasure, nothing more.

But then Chris says, “Come on. A deal’s a deal. You have to answer me.”

Right. There’s a question he’s supposed to answer, isn’t there. Did Yuuri ever say anything like that to him? He’d said plenty about _Victor’s_ body, on those nights when he would close his eyes and they would pretend Phichit was someone else—but Phichit’s own body was sort of… secondary. Yuuri was full of gratitude and praise, always telling Phichit what a good friend he was, how much he loved him, but there was never really anything physical. 

“No,” Phichit says. “I don’t think so. But, I mean, it… it was never really about me, you know?”

“That’s a shame,” Chris says, kissing Phichit’s chest. “Anyone lucky enough to see you like this, so lean and beautiful, hard and aching and arching for it… they should tell you how gorgeous you are.”

“Fuck, Chris,” Phichit whines, arching his back just like Chris had described. “Harder or faster, pick one and do it.”

Chris smiles. “Yes, sir.” He drives his fingers in hard, curling them just right, but still moving so maddeningly slow. It’s too much and it’s not enough, and Phichit throws his head back, biting his own hand to keep from yelling in terrible, wonderful frustration.

“Perfect,” Chris says, sounding smug. “Has anyone ever taken the time to study you, darling? To find all the best ways to make you fall apart?”

Phichit groans into his hand. “Is that an actual question or an invitation?”

“What if I said it’s both?”

Phichit takes a second to imagine it—another night like this one, except with no time limit. No games. Nothing but Chris’s hands and mouth on him, figuring out all his secrets. This encounter is already perhaps the most attention he’s had focused on him in years, if not the most attention ever, and the thought of getting more is intoxicating. But…

Practicality wins. Phichit exhales slowly, steadying himself. “Then _I’d_ say that first of all, the answer is no, no one has. And second of all, if that’s an invitation then it’s going to have to wait till next time, because that door is still unlocked, and I really, really think you should fuck me before somebody walks in here and catches us.”

“Or,” Chris counters, “I could get up and lock the door.”

“Don’t,” Phichit says, grabbing at Chris’s hair, his shoulder, suddenly desperate to keep him where he is. “Don’t stop touching me.”

Something flashes across Chris’s face. Something dark and solemn and… and understanding. “I won’t,” he says softly.

And he doesn’t. His fingers keep moving, slow and deep, inside of Phichit. He snaps the lube open again and drips some onto his hand, pulling back just enough to add a third finger to the next thrust. Phichit slaps a hand over his mouth to muffle the sound he makes at the stretch. His other hand is still fisted in Chris’s hair.

“Do you like that idea?” Chris asks, and tugs gently at Phichit’s nipple with his teeth, enough to make him hiss. “That anyone could walk in right now and see you like this, all naked and starving for it?”

“Oh, fuck,” Phichit gasps. He’s never really thought about it like that. He’s never had a partner who would risk it. Who would _like_ it.

But Chris isn’t stopping, and he isn’t being cautious. He’s naked and he’s so very hard and he’s dripping on the carpet, and Phichit kind of thinks that he wants someone to walk in, just so he can show off. _I did that. Me. He’s hard because of me._

“Yes or no?” Chris asks, driving his fingers in hard, curling them, holding them there.

“Yes, fuck, _yes,”_ Phichit says, too lost in sensation to be anything but honest.

Chris pulls his fingers out, almost all the way. “I knew it,” he says, and drills them in again, hard enough that Phichit can feel it in his bones. “I always knew you were a little slut.”

Phichit laughs at that. “Always, huh?” he manages, as Chris’s fingers curl and uncurl inside him, touching every part of him that they can reach. “How— _oh_ god, oh, there, _there_ —ha—how long—so—so you’ve been thinking about this for a while?”

It’s maybe not as smooth a comeback as he’d usually give, but under the circumstances, it’s kind of a miracle that he can remember how to speak English at all.

“A long, _long_ while,” Chris says solemnly. “The past twenty minutes, at very least. Maybe even twenty- _five_ minutes.”

“Asshole,” Phichit murmurs with a laugh.

Chris looks down, feigning surprise. “Oh, is _that_ what this is?” he says, curling his fingers again, making Phichit squirm. “Interesting. I wonder what else can fit inside it.”

And then, before Phichit can even begin to say _Stop teasing and fuck me already,_ Chris has pulled his fingers out. He lifts Phichit’s hips in one swift, strong movement and, without even a second of hesitation, spreads him wide with his thumbs and plunges his tongue straight into Phichit’s hole.

Somewhere in the ever-shrinking logical corner of his brain, Phichit is very, very aware that this move is something that Chris has practiced. Probably often, probably with more partners than Phichit can count on all his digits combined. It’s flashy and quick and designed to impress, and that should make it ridiculous—but it’s not. It’s really not. It’s a flash-flood of sensation, of wet heat, of stubble scraping his asscheeks as Chris’s tongue works its magic.

Phichit clamps a hand over his mouth again. He has to, otherwise everyone at the entire wedding will know what they’re up to.

He doesn’t know how long Chris keeps him there, hoisted in the air, legs flailing, toes curling. Eons, maybe. It doesn’t matter. What does matter is by the time Chris sets him down again, pausing only to place a quick kiss on the shaft of his cock, Phichit is shaking. Head to toe. Absolutely shaking.

“F-fuck me,” he manages.

Chris leans closer. “Sorry, didn’t quite hear that.”

“Please,” Phichit says, gasping for breath as he lies sprawled on the carpet. “Please, please fuck me.”

“That’s a start,” Chris says mildly. Sitting back on his heels between Phichit’s legs, he rests one hand on Phichit’s thigh, his thumb just barely touching the base of Phichit’s aching cock. He smiles, almost angelic. “More detail, please.”

If he weren’t already so close to wrecked, Phichit might be tempted to grab Chris, wrestle him to the ground, and sit on his cock _right now,_ just so he wouldn’t have to go another second feeling so empty, so full of desperate, hungry _need._ But Chris wants to keep playing. So that’s what Phichit will do.

“Detail?” he says, managing a shaky grin. “Did someone forget what ‘fuck me’ means?”

 _“Someone,”_ Chris counters, “already fucked you with his tongue _and_ his fingers.”

And there’s probably a comeback for that, too, but the sudden, visceral memory of Chris’s tongue rips it straight out of Phichit’s mind, leaving only the simple, honest truth: “Your cock. I want your cock inside me. Now.”

Chris makes a show of looking down at himself. Of wrapping one hand around himself and stroking slowly, so slowly, before looking up at Phichit again. “This? Inside you? I thought you wanted me to… what was it… put that thing away?”

Phichit groans. “I will _murder_ you, Giacometti.”

“Ooh, then I _definitely_ won’t be able to fuck you,” Chris says with a laugh. He strokes himself again. Again. Fingers exploring, fluid leaking. His eyes are hooded, and his smile is absolutely feral. “You want this, Chulanont? Then start begging.”

“Fuck,” Phichit says. “Fuck you, fuck you, you are the fucking worst.”

Chris pouts. “I guess that means you don’t want me to fuck you after all.”

He means it, then. He really wants Phichit to beg. Well, Phichit might not be as much of a natural as Victor was, or maybe is, but at least the memory of that video is fresh enough in his mind that he can use it as inspiration.

Phichit meets Chris’s teasing eyes with a determined gaze of his own, and he pitches his voice low and soft, and he says: “I want you to fuck me, Chris. Please. I want you to put your gorgeous, perfect cock inside me, and I want you to make me scream. Please. I want to feel you, all of you, as deep as you can go, and I want to clench down hard to keep you there.”

He runs his hands down his own chest as he speaks, pinches at his nipples until they’re puffy and dark, until he almost feels like he could come just from that and the way Chris is looking at him: hungry eyes tracking the movement of his hands as he arches into them.

“Getting warmer,” Chris says, but his voice is shakier now, less resolved. Phichit’s got him, for sure. 

“Fuck me, Chris,” Phichit orders softly. He brings his arms up over his head, wrists crossed and back arched, the very picture of willing submission. “You said I had an incredible body. Don’t you want to know what I can do with it? How good I can make you feel? Please, Chris… don’t you wanna come inside me?”

“Goddamn it,” Chris hisses as he dives for his bag. “That’s not begging.” But he’s already pulling out a condom and ripping it open. Rolling it on.

Phichit grins. _“Please_ come inside me?”

“I bet you always get your way, don’t you?” Chris asks, hauling Phichit’s legs up until one knee is hooked over his shoulder, the other over the bend of his elbow. Phichit moans a little at the rough handling, loving the feeling of being spread out and open. He is so close to getting filled up. So close.

“It usually works out pretty great for everybody,” he answers, lifting his hips to make the angle easier. Chris rubs the head of his cock against his slick rim, teasing just a little before pushing in: a slow, filthy stretch that’s absolutely perfect.

“Oh, _yes,”_ Phichit sighs, dropping his head back to the floor, showing his throat. “Just like that, Chris, _ah…”_

Chris swears when he bottoms out, hips flush against Phichit’s ass, cock buried as deep as it will go. He stays there for only a moment, and then draws back out, so slow and so delicious. Phichit lets out a breathless, ecstatic groan.

“How do you like it, darling? Tell me…” Chris sounds breathless, too.

Phichit digs his heel into Chris’s shoulder and arches his back, pulling his cock in again, just a little, just enough to feel it where it pushes him open. And then he smiles, doing his best to make it look like a challenge. “I thought you wanted to figure that out for yourself.”

Chris laughs and shoves his hips forward, making Phichit gasp into a laugh of his own. “And I thought _you_ were worried about someone walking in,” he counters, as he begins to speed up. “Thought I had to save that for next time.”

“I did say that, didn’t I?” Phichit agrees. He shifts his legs to get leverage—and the next time Chris thrusts in, Phichit flips their position, rolling Chris smoothly onto his back. Chris yelps in surprise, then makes a low, hungry sound as Phichit’s weight pushes him even further onto Chris’s cock.

Chris already looks halfway to wrecked.

Phichit pushes his hair out of his face and sits up, thinking he probably looks the same.

“I still think I’d rather show than tell,” he says, and starts to move his hips. Slowly, at first, a gentle rocking motion that lets him feel all the places that Chris’s cock is reaching inside of him.

Chris groans: a guttural, throaty sound that Phichit can feel in his bones. He closes his eyes, too, but only for a second. Only enough to get used to the sensation.

Once Chris’s eyes are on him again, Phichit grins. _“This_ is how I feel about what you’re doing,” he says, and speeds up the motion, until it’s more riding than rocking. It’s good; it’s _so good._ He can feel as much as see that his own cock has started leaking—and he presses it down, down, until it’s touching Chris’s belly. Rubs it against Chris’s warm skin, smearing fluid everywhere.

“Filthy little thing,” Chris says, breathy. “Come here.”

So Phichit interrupts the motion of his hips, leaning over, meeting Chris in a wet, frantic kiss. This is apparently what Chris wanted, because he grips the back of Phichit’s neck, holding him down, tongue swiping hungrily into his mouth. Phichit clenches around Chris’s cock, making Chris groan again, and this time he can taste the sound on his tongue. It’s amazing, Chris is _amazing,_ he’s—

“Oh no—oh, wait, _shit,_ I’m so sorry!”

It takes longer than it should, maybe, for Phichit to realize that the voice saying those words belongs neither to Chris nor to himself. It takes even longer to remember about the door. The unlocked door.

Still bent low over Chris with his hands braced on the floor, Phichit turns his head just enough. Just enough to see Yuuri Katsuki-Nikiforov standing in the doorway, utterly frozen, with an expression on his face that Phichit can only describe as _very, very surprised._

“Yuuri,” says Chris, breathless and panting beneath him. “Lovely wedding. Your suit is _divine._ I’ve been meaning to tell you that all day.”

Phichit huffs out a breath of laughter. Chris complimenting Yuuri’s suit while his cock’s still buried to the hilt inside Phichit’s body. He can’t quite process it. Let alone speak. Let alone make jokes.

Yuuri, adorably, runs one hand down the lapel of his suit. “Uh. Thanks? I—um, I’ll just let you, um…”

That’s when Victor appears, just behind Yuuri. His eyebrows shoot up. He grins.

“Yuuri, my love, you owe me five hundred yen.”

Chris barks out a laugh—and wriggles his hips in a way that makes Phichit groan. This is really happening. He is really having sex while other people watch. Because this isn’t just _coitus interruptus_ anymore; Chris is moving inside him. Chris is fucking him, _actively fucking him,_ and Yuuri and Victor are both there, _watching,_ because neither of them has gathered his wits enough to leave yet.

“Well, don’t just stand there. Come and join us!”

At first, he thinks it was Chris who said it—but Chris is looking up at him with something very like awe. No, it was him. Apparently he’s remembered how to speak, because that was all him.

Victor barks a laugh. “As tempted as I am, we’re kind of in the middle of a wedding here. Can you two be back downstairs in ten minutes?”

Phichit could probably be back downstairs in two minutes, fully dressed and maybe even showered. That’s how close he is. He wasn’t a second ago, but _all these eyes on him…._

“With clothes on,” adds Yuuri

“Wedding stuff?” asks Chris.

“Wedding stuff,” confirms Victor. “Come on, husband of mine. Let’s give them some privacy.”

And Victor leaves. Yuuri, though, lingers in the doorway a moment longer. Phichit can feel his gaze like a touch moving down over his heaving chest, his side, his cock, slick and so hard where it’s pressed against Chris’s stomach. Then his eyes meet Phichit’s, and he smiles, familiar and filthy.

“Pull his hair, Chris,” Yuuri says—orders, really—in a voice Phichit has _never_ heard him use before. It’s quiet, but Chris’s hand moves to obey before the sentence is even over, and Phichit can’t hear anything over the rushing of blood in his ears. He cries out, and throws his head back into Chris’s hand, making him pull tighter. Then Yuuri is shutting the door and saying something that might be _next time_ but might be anything, because Phichit can’t focus, he’s _so close…_

“Fuck, _Phichit, oh,”_ Chris gasps, tugging Phichit down against his body, holding him tight and still so he can drive his hips up, fucking Phichit fast and deep.

“Yes, yes, _please!”_ Phichit begs, and he’s too loud, they’re both too loud, but he can’t stop, he _can’t stop_ , and he’s _coming,_ hot and wet against Chris’s body, shaking apart in his arms. It goes on forever, his mouth open wide, eyes clenched shut, shuddery sounds escaping him with every movement of Chris’s dick inside him.

“That’s it,” says Chris, breathless and desperate. “That’s it, that’s perfect, you beautiful thing— _ah!”_ His hips lose their rhythm, shoving gracelessly up for a handful of thrusts before he’s coming, too, mouthing at the side of Phichit’s neck, muffling a deep groan with his teeth in Phichit’s flesh.

“Ahhh, vampire,” Phichit says, but he doesn’t pull away; he just lets Chris nibble and kiss at his skin as they come down. His release is sticky between their bodies, and in a minute or two it’s going to be uncomfortable, but for now it feels nice, just being held like this. It feels so nice.

After a moment, Chris reaches behind him to hold the condom in place as he pulls out. They both sigh a little at the sensation.

“One more question,” Chris says, pushing his fingers back through Phichit’s hair, a soft touch in contrast to the earlier pull. “That is, if you think I’ve earned it.”

Phichit props himself up on Chris’s chest and traces a fingernail over his collarbone. “Mm… I’m feeling generous for some reason. Ask away.”

The hand in Phichit’s hair slides down a little, cupping his cheek. Chris’s eyes shine, and Phichit prepares to turn down one last request for his naked pictures of Yuuri.

Then Chris asks, solemnly, “Who was better? Yuuri or me?”

Phichit laughs and swats his hand away. “What would you do if I picked Yuuri?”

Chris grins, and Phichit has the sudden feeling that he just gave Chris the exact answer he wanted.

“Well, I’d have to insist on proving myself, obviously,” Chris says. “I’d have to invite you out for a visit and keep you in my bed the whole time. Show you exactly where my reputation came from.”

Phichit rolls his eyes. “Your reputation is for getting so turned on by your own routines that you literally ejaculate on the ice.”

“My _other_ reputation,” Chris says with a laugh.

Phichit purses his lips, pretending to think. “You mean your reputation for sleeping with every single one of your competitors?”

“An exaggeration, I assure you. There are at least three… four?... at least four of my competitors that I haven’t slept with.”

“Ooh. Who haven’t you slept with?”

 _“Ooh._ Look who’s asking questions now.”

Phichit thwacks Chris lightly across the chest. “Give me one name, and you get to ask me one more.”

Chris’s grin is back, full force. “He’s a bit too young for me anyway, but… let’s just say Otabek keeps his kitten on a very tight leash.”

Phichit sighs. “I could’ve guessed that one.”

“What I meant,” Chris says, “is my reputation for being a very attentive, very _giving_ lover.”

Phichit tilts his head to the side. “Oh. Huh. I don’t think I’ve heard that one, actually.”

“You little asshole,” Chris says, and grabs him. Pulling Phichit flush against his chest, he rolls them over so he, Chris, is on top. The stickiness between them rubs awkwardly, but Phichit can’t bring himself to care. Especially not when Chris pins him and starts kissing him again, all over his face, until he’s laughing at the ridiculousness of it. Then Chris stops, smiling down at him. “You said one more question.”

“Yeah,” says Phichit. So _this_ is where he’ll ask for the photos.

“Will you come visit me? Soon?” Chris bends and presses a single kiss—a chaste one, almost—to Phichit’s lips. “I’d like to do this again. Properly. Maybe even with locked doors.”

“Locked doors are for losers,” Phichit says.

But Chris barely cracks a grin at the joke. Oh god, he’s serious. Phichit’s stomach swoops.

“Yeah,” Phichit says, absolutely meaning it. “Yeah, that’d be great.”

“Oh, it’ll be way better than great,” Chris says—and then, in a flash, he’s off Phichit and getting to his feet. “But for now, we should probably clean ourselves up. Apparently there’s a wedding going on downstairs.” He extends a hand to help Phichit up.

Phichit takes it, letting Chris haul him to his feet. “Is there? Interesting. Let’s go crash it.”


End file.
